


The Sinking Feeling of Anticipation

by JaggedCliffs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 05:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaggedCliffs/pseuds/JaggedCliffs
Summary: When Æsir come of age, they receive a gift from their parents, one meant to aid them in their adult lives. When a prince of Asgard comes of age, their gifts are not just for themselves, but for the realm.Loki watched Thor receive Mjolnir at his coming of age ceremony – one of the greatest weapons in the realms, for one of its greatest warriors. Now, it's Loki's turn, and he knows Odin will grant him something just as magnificent.Won't he?





	The Sinking Feeling of Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> So, _Thor: Ragnarok_ is coming out tomorrow (in Canada and America at least *shakes fist at countries that got it last week* (And I know technically the movie comes out on the 3rd, but midnight showings and whatever – or in my case, 7pm showings)). Months ago, I decided that I wanted to publish a fic to celebrate _Thor: Ragnarok_! However, I originally wanted to get out a fic that was set after _Thor: The Dark World_ , since I knew whatever I wrote in that fic would be jossed by _Ragnarok_.
> 
> The fic I was hoping to publish is one that I have lovingly called _[Torture Loki: The Fic](http://jaggedcliffs.tumblr.com/tagged/torture-loki%3A-the-fic)_ , in lieu of a better name; I started writing it years ago, stopped, and then decided to start writing again this August in an attempt to get it finished. Much to my own surprise, I did manage to finish the first draft of the fic 10 days ago. However, since that draft is 32 pages long, and I still had things like school, I knew there was no possible way that I could to edit the fic to perfection in time.
> 
> So instead, you're getting this fic! It’s a fic I wrote a draft of about two years ago, decided I hated it, and then completely forgot about it. I've periodically remembered it exists, but never decided to revisit until recently, because it’s something that I could post before Nov. 2nd. And I’ve decided I don’t hate it as much as I did. It has absolutely nothing to do with _Thor: Ragnarok_ , or the time between it and _The Dark World_ , since it’s set pre-canon, so the timeline won’t be obliterated by _Ragnarok_. But whatever, it's posted.
> 
> Notes about the story itself (which I wrote when I first wrote this story, or else I wouldn't have remember them): Loki is around the human equivalent of 16. I also spent way too long thinking about the intricacies of made-up rites of passage for Asgard while writing this, because according to Wikipedia, we don't know what rituals Vikings might have had in order to pass into adulthood.

Loki nervously slicked back his hair and adjusted his armour. Even though he had slicked back his hair and adjusted his armour less than a minute ago. Even though he had meticulously slicked back his hair and assiduously adjusted his armour in front of the mirror in his rooms right before making his way to the throne room.

But he had to look _perfect_. He had to _be_ perfect.

Once again, he patted down the pouches at his belt to ensure everything was still in place – which may have been overzealous considering the number of spells he had layered on the pouches, from stopping thieves to warding off wear and tear. Still, it did not hurt to check.

Loki was reaching up for his hair again – maybe he should have spelled _that_ in place, he knew how easily it could get loose or curl – when the steward appeared out of the side hall.

“They are ready for you,” the man said with a bow.

Loki's mouth was so dry, he might well have swallowed a desert full of sand.

He nodded at the steward – proper words, he believed, were beyond him at the moment – and stepped forward, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. The great gold doors of the throne room loomed, almost foreboding. As he approached, the doors lurched open. A cacophony of voices swept over him, halting him in his steps.

Heart beating wildly, Loki took a moment to compose his features into a calm, unruffled mask. Then he crossed the threshold.

The noise rose to a roar, deafening him. But that did not stop Loki from walking down the aisle, gait carefully measured. Behind the spears of the Einherjar, he saw hundreds of faces, crowding close.

It seemed like half the realm had shown up to see their second-born prince come of age.

Loki felt a heady rush that did nothing for the prickles of sweat down his back and on his palms, nor his nervous heartbeat. But he kept his chin up, arms by his side, cape snapping sharply at his heels. Regal and composed.

And yes, Loki knew he did not look as Thor had when he made this walk a few decades ago – no broad shoulders, no thick arms corded with muscle, no confident swagger, no effortless smiles. There was no sword strapped to his back, nor was he swinging something like Jarnbjorn about, as if it was a twig rather than an axe almost half as tall as Loki had been. Loki's shoulders were slim, just like the rest of him. His only weapons were the knives sheathed at his belt. And he thought that if he tried to throw easy smiles at random citizens in the crowd, his face would crack. (Not that many would appreciate _his_ smiles, anyway.)

But he _knew_ he looked like a prince. Because he had practised this walk over and over, created images of himself and watched their every move, until he had it _right_.

He walked his perfected walk through the middle of the crowd up to the throne. And suddenly there they were, spread about the gold steps: Mother on the left, Thor on the right, and in middle, in front of the throne with Gungnir in his hand, was Father.

It was not quite the placement for Thor's ceremony. Then, both Mother and Loki had been on the right, while Thor's friends took the left. Loki remembered watching Thor from where he was now, mildly irritated at all his posturing. And yet, he could not help from admiring the confidence, the leisurely way Thor carried both weapons. Envying it. He remembered Thor taking his place at the foot of the stairs and kneeling, all the while looking up at his friends and family with a bright smile.

And he remembered the look in Father's eye when he gifted Mjolnir to Thor, the gleaming, bursting pride as Father declared Thor a man.

“A worthy weapon for a worthy warrior,” Father had said, satisfaction in every word.

The crowd had gasped as one. _Everyone_ knew of Mjolnir, a weapon great enough to rival Gungnir itself. Everyone knew of its power, its strength, and the storm thrumming through its uru head, though no one had used it in centuries. It had sat in Father's vault, a treasure like all the rest of Asgard's great prizes. _Magnificent_.

Loki had been in _awe_.

Thor had turned to the crowd, raised Mjolnir high, and bellowed out his triumph. When the crowd joined him, Loki thought he might go deaf.

It had been a few minutes later, once the crowds began to disperse towards the feasts, once Loki's shock had worn off, that he wondered what Father might give _him_.

And now the wait was almost over. Almost.

Loki reached the foot of the stairs. He was only slightly surprised his knees did not waver as he knelt, and he looked up to face his family. Mother gave him an encouraging smile, and Thor's grin was so broad it took up half his face. Only Father's face remained impassive. But Loki knew that was because, as king, Father had to maintain a sense of decorum. It had been like that with Thor, although near the end, Father's smile had broken through so the whole realm could see his pride.

(It would happen to Loki soon enough.)

Once Loki had settled into his spot, hands clasped across his knee, Father banged Gungnir against the dias. The room hushed. Father's eye fell on Loki, and Loki instinctively tried to perfect his already-perfect posture.

“Loki Odin's son,” Father began, the words filling the hall, and Loki's heart beat faster. If that was possible. “On this day, in front of the host of Asgard, you come to claim your passage into adulthood. Have you come bearing testament your claim?”

Loki opened his mouth to answer, only to realized his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. All the walk to the throne, he had forgotten his mouth was as dry as a desert, and his throat no better. Panic flooded him. He _knew_ , if he tried to speak now, nothing would come out – or worse, he'd make some undignified squeak of a sound

_(This hadn't happened to Thor. Thor had paraded up to the throne, Thor had bellowed out his answer with a grin.)_

Loki swallowed, dug his nails into his flesh, and ran his tongue across the front of his teeth. After a silence that lasted only a few seconds but felt like it stretched on for hours, he said, “I have.”

The words weren't quite as _loud_ as he had planned. Still, his voice neither broke nor rasped – a small mercy. He discreetly cleared his throat, then said with more force, “For a year and nine days, I have journeyed far across the realms.” He looked Father in eye as he spoke, as if they were the only two in the cavernous room. “I have come bearing testament to my claim.”

With those words, Loki reached down into one of his pouches and wrapped his fingers around his treasure. Without taking his eyes off Father, he announced, “I have come bearing nine scales, plucked from the hide of one of the oldest dragons living on the edges of Alfheim. Three stolen– ” Loki withdrew his hand, taking three glistening green scales with it, each nearly the size of his palm. For a moment, he allowed the light to glance off them and those at the front of the crowd to catch a glimpse, before placing them to his left. “Three by force–” he said and slid another three from a second pouch; these scales, while still a poisonous green, were warped, battered, and weathered. They joined the first set after Loki had allowed the crowd their fill. From the last pouch, he withdrew three yellowed, much smaller scales, ones that could only have come from the lizard's underbelly.

“And three given willingly,” he finished, placing them beside the others. The crowd murmured, hopefully in awe that Loki had talked a dragon into uncovering such a fatal weakness.

Loki thought he saw a flicker of surprise pass across Father's face at his words, before his expression smoothed over once more.

(Thor had brought back a wyvern, the beast too large to fit through the halls. He had only brought in the horns and the claws, and invited all to come into the courtyard to witness it – not that everyone hadn't _already_. It had been over a day since Thor had returned and even if they had missed the great, stinking corpse, Thor had wasted no time in boasting of his triumph.)

(The crowd had shouted their approval, of course. Loki thought he had seen a small smile on Father's face. Before his expression smoothed over.)

Loki waited until the whispers died down to speak again. “I have come bearing a set of daggers.” Loki crossed his arms across his body, each hand going to the sheath at either hip. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out two of the daggers, each gleaming darkly in the golden light. “They were crafted in Niðavellir's halls, forged by the Dwarfs' skill and my magic, toiled over for three days without sleep.” All in the hall would know of Loki's fraught history with certain Dwarf smiths. If any Dwarf he came across decided to sell him out, there would have been trouble to pay. But it was all part of the challenge of this feat – not just his skill with magic, but the risk.

Again, mutters swept through the crowd, though Loki did not turn to see if they were for good or for ill. All he saw was the small crease of worry that appeared on Mother's forehead, and Thor's grin that dimmed a touch before brightening once more. Father's face, he thought, remained unchanged.

(Thor had fought against a horde of famed bandits, vagrants cobbled together from different realms. He had battled his way through the direwolves they had bent to their will, until he reached their leader and won the sword strapped to his back.)

(Cheers had roared through the crowd as Thor raised the sword high. Loki had thought Father gave Thor an evaluating look, though it may have only been a trick of the light.)

The daggers came to rest at Loki's right, their sheen as bright as the scales'. The centre remained clear for the third – and, generally believed, the greatest – item. Loki raised his hands to his shoulders, where his cape attached to his armour, and released its glamour. There came gasps of surprise from the crowd as the cape shimmered gold, then revealed itself to not be a cape at all, but a cloak, composed of sleek, midnight-dark feathers that rivalled Huginn's and Muninn's shade. It flowed down Loki's shoulders like water, spilling across the floor behind him.

“I have come bearing a cloak of feathers, gifted with the power of flight,” Loki said, searching Father's face for some emotion in his eye, some twitch of a smile only held back by propriety. “A token of gratitude from the Lakeland villages and noble houses of Vanaheim's east countries. Once, they were plagued by the demons set free by a mad sorcerer, whose own beasts turned on him before he could close the demons' paths. Now, the people are safe.”

The murmurings behind Loki took an excited edge, and Mother and Thor wore proud grins. Something passed across Father's eye, his mouth twitched, and Loki had no idea what it meant.

(Thor had held off one of the largest herds of trolls Alfheim had ever seen, keeping them locked at a narrow mountain path for days. In return, Thor had been gifted Megingjörð, a belt that could increase his strength his twice-fold. After Thor had pronounced this fact, he'd thrown his head back with a laugh, saying that he hardly needed the advantage.)

(The crowd had laughed with him. A twinkle appeared in Father's eye as he quite obviously fought a smile.)

Loki removed the cloak from his shoulders and placed it in front of him, carefully folding it and smoothing down its feathers. Then he looked to Father and waited.

Usually the worth of the three items of “testament” had little bearing on the ceremony and a warrior's or noble's official passage into adulthood – their value was mostly for bragging rights. Yet in the small space of silence, when the room itself seemed to hold its breath, Loki could not help but remember rumours of warriors who were sent back on quest after quest, their items seen as worthless and not befitting of a man. What if Father didn't like them, what if he _denied_ Loki, claimed his gifts unfitting and suited only to a child? What if Father sent him away, back through the crowd as they mocked and jeered, back away from the palace until he found gifts that were worthy of–

“I recognize and accept your testaments to your claim,” Father said with a nod, and Loki's shoulders sagged with relief. He quickly returned to his rigid, ramrod-straight posture in time for the next part of the ceremony.

The most strenuous piece was over. Now, Loki only had to remain kneeling through the speeches, respond to the swearing of the oaths and the pledges, all which was simple tradition. Loki had practised his responses, and at this point he could even follow along with Father's words, reciting them in his head as Father turned his attention from Loki to the crowd to give his speeches. When it came Loki's turn to make his oaths, his voice neither trembled nor stumbled. And while he did not bellow his “ _I swear_ ”'s and “ _This I pledge_ ”'s like Thor, his voice still carried clear across the hall.

At last, once Loki had pledged to set aside his childish ways, Father said, “Then rise, Loki Odin's son, and receive your due as a man of Asgard.”

Loki rose as bid, his heart in his throat. He knew what came next.

Even for those who were neither warriors nor noble, it was customary for fathers to grant their sons gifts when they came of age, and mothers their daughters. Each was meant to aid them in their adult life – though, as princes, Thor's and Loki's gifts were not just for themselves, but for the realm.

Grandfather Bor had gifted Father Gugnrir. And Father had gifted Thor Mjolnir.

Now it was Loki's turn.

In his daydreams, he'd try to imagine what Father would give him, Father's eye shining with the same pride as when he'd given Thor Mjolnir. It changed from daydream to daydream, with Loki never able to settle on which gift Father might choose. Sometimes, in his wilder dreams, it would be another one of the artifacts from the vault, like the Eye or the Orb. Sometimes it was a weapon, but one much more suited to his tastes than Mjolnir. And even if it wasn't what Loki preferred, he was sure he would find it to his use – for Father wouldn't have given it to him otherwise. Sometimes it was a set of spells that would teach Loki his own variant of the Odinforce, sometimes a key to a secret Odin trusted _only_ Loki with. And sometimes – _sometimes_ , in the thoughts he had to suppress as quickly as they came, because of the heady mix of fear and hope that came with them – it was the promise that when Father no longer had need of it, Gugnrir would be Loki's.

In those daydreams, it would always be something magnificent. Something to equal Mjolnir.

It _had_ to be.

Father beckoned, and an Einherjar came forth, bearing a large, lumpy shape concealed by a golden cloth. He handed it Father, head bowed, and melted back into the crowd. Father looked out over the people, before settling his eye on Loki, and gave a small, proud smile.

There it was, that heady rush, and Loki felt breathless. His heart seemed to swell until it pushed his against his ribcage.

Father grasped the cloth, and in a swift motion drew it back, revealing...

A book.

A thick, gold-embossed, smaller-than-average book.

Otherwise, it was _only_ average. It didn't look like any of the mythic books that had fallen into legend, the ones that Loki _occasionally_ thought Father might gift him if he discovered their whereabouts. Like the one written on dragon scale, the one purportedly to exist in more than three dimensions, or even the one supposedly bound in Æsir skin (not that Loki particularly _wanted_ that one, though he was still curious to know what might be written inside.)

This book seemed nothing like those, the ones that _looked_ powerful so everyone would know their worth. It looked normal. Not too new, not too old and tattered, not too large, nor too flashy.

But it _must_ be more than that. Books of powerful magic could not always be spectacular, or else every thief would be after them – any sorcerer worth their spells would take due care to hide the font of all their knowledge. This book could be hidden under a glamour – though why Father hadn't removed it for the occasion, Loki didn't know; or maybe the book was made that way, with the intent to conceal its hidden power to all who beheld it.

Yes, that must be it.

( _It had to be._ )

Father held out the book and motioned Loki forward. Loki jerked upward, then realized he might seem too eager. He made the rest of the walk up the stairs with grace, until he reached Father's level. Fingers trembling, he reached for the book. Perhaps he would feel a thrum of magic running through the pages, that the book _itself_ was imbued with power. But when he closed his hands around the book, Loki felt nothing.

Unthinkingly, he glanced up.

Father's eye _gleamed_ with pride.

For the first time since the ceremony began, a smile split across Loki's face. He whirled and hoisted the book as high as Thor had lifted Mjolnir, in triumph.

To either side of him, Mother and Thor clapped and the cheered, and the crowd followed suit. They did not roar with the fervour that had greeted Thor; instead, their applause held an edge of politeness, clapping because it was expected of them.

But what did _they_ know about magic, about subtly and seiðr? What did they know of the power that rested in words and in will and in spirit, rather than in strength of arm and the sharpness of a blade?

So maybe they saw only a bland little book, and couldn't tell its value even if Loki explained it to them. Maybe they couldn't look at it and _know_ that this gift was equal to Mjolnir, that Father had been just as generous with both his sons.

But Loki would know. Father and Mother would know, Loki would make sure that _Thor_ would know, and of course that was all that mattered.

_(Wasn't it?)_

Father's hand landed on Loki's shoulder, and Loki turned to him. When he saw Father's expression, the same expression Father had worn when Thor held Mjolnir for the first time, a giddiness overtook him, and Loki felt as if his head were floating somewhere far above his body.

“Loki Odin's son,” Father said. “You have entered the rank of men, leaving your childhood behind. Eat, drink, and be merry.”

The crowd cheered loud enough for that, at least.

 

* * *

 

Being merry was a rather difficult task, when all throughout the feast, Loki burned with impatience. He wanted nothing more than to rush to his room, open up the book, and start reading.

But he had to sit through the meal first. All nine courses of it. And all the accolades, of course. Half the hall came up to congratulate him, clapping him on the back and almost spilling whatever Loki happened to be holding in his hands.

When the halls began shouting out request for stories, they would demand to know how he had taken the scales from the dragon. While they listened rapt at attention when he described his confrontation with the beast, they fidgeted through his story of stealing the first set of scales, and drifted away when he explained how he had talked the old, intelligent beast out of three from his belly. Beyond asking if he'd had to fight his way out of Niðavellir, no one much cared how he'd evaded attention by any of Brokkr and Eitri's allies. And whenever Loki tried describing the intense, intricate process that went into banishing demons, their eyes glazed over, and asked again about the story of fighting the dragon.

No one asked after the book. Loki had banished it away to his pocket after the ceremony, to keep it safe. No one even asked if he could bring it out so they could get a better look at it. Not like they had with Thor. At his feast, Thor had flourished Mjolnir, tossing it about like he had Jarnbjorn. He'd tried to make it thunder and rain, and made a game of throwing the hammer as far as he could before it returned to his hand, cheers accompanying accomplishment, and shared laughter accompanying every failure.

After one of Father's councillors offered up her congratulation for Loki's passage into manhood and Odin's choice of gift – somehow missing all of Loki's hints that she should ask about said gift – Loki thought that maybe he should take the book out, prop it up so that everyone could see it. Or would that look too obvious, seem too needy for attention? And then it might get dirty, especially as those in the hall got progressively drunker, their steps more sloppy as they swaggered up to Loki. Or Loki might drop it, or get food on it, or–

No, best not.

He took a sip of his mead. And then when a rather drunk Volstagg called out for “the battle against the great, scaled beast!” – joined quickly by a drunk Hogun and an even drunker Fandral – Loki took a bigger gulp, sighed, and began the tale again.

 

* * *

 

The hour was late when Loki left the feasting hall, late enough to be called early. Even so, he had departed the feast as soon as was polite for one who was the centre of the celebration. Although Loki thought he'd hardly be missed – as the evening wore on, the caskets of mead and the remnants of the feast had taken up most of the hall's attention.

It was a shame he hadn't had a chance to talk to Father during the feast, and by the time Loki left, both Mother and Father had retired. Thor had stayed, of course, calling for a toast to his brother every hour or so. It had been enjoyable at first, but Loki wanted to retain a modicum of sobriety when he returned to his room. He had eventually started pretending to down the tankards, which was why Loki's gait was steady as he walked down the halls, while Thor and most of his comrades were passed out in various states of discomfort in the hall.

It took all of Loki's willpower not to run to his rooms. His hands itched to bring the book out now, to read it as he walked through the halls as he had when he was a boy, but he resisted. He was a man now, and that meant he had to put all childish habits behind.

The moment he stepped inside his doors, Loki ran to bedroom, pulled out the chair to his desk, and sat down. Then he raised his hands, opened a pocket between them, and the book settled in them. Carefully, he set the book on the desk, one hand raised and ready to pluck it open. Except now, he found he could only stare, heart hammering and palms sweating.

The cover gave away nothing, the gold embossing only for decoration. No title or author was in evidence, no sign of who its previous owner had been. From the binding of the pages and the material used, Loki could at least tell it was from either Asgard or Vanaheim.

Maybe inside, he would find an inscription or a letter, telling him more. Maybe instead of speaking fleeting words, any of which could be lost to faulty memory, Father chose his words to be forever inscribed on his gift.

Maybe inside, Loki would find spells meant for the most advanced of sorcerers, ones that Father trusted only Loki with.

Maybe...maybe Father had written some himself.

With trembling hands, Loki delicately lifted the cover and opened the book.

The inside of the cover was blank. As was the back. When Loki flipped through the pages, he didn't see any letter folded between them.

Well, Thor hadn't received a letter either. It was only fair, Loki supposed.

And the magic held in these pages was more than message enough.

Loki swiped his sweating fingers against his pants, and turned the opening pages until he found the first scrawl of writing. He hunched over the book, nose a bare inch above the page as he scanned line after line of spellwork. The first wasn't too complex, nor much out of the ordinary, but Loki figured the more interesting spells would appear later on. The ones that were the reason Father had given him this book.

Eagerly, he flipped to the next page, studying the runes for Father's writing, looking for the secrets Father would unravel for him. The secrets he trusted Loki with, like he had trusted Mjolnir with Thor.

He found neither, so he turned to the next spell.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Loki pretended his hand didn't move with a frantic energy as he reached for another page, pretended his fingers hadn't begun to tremble out of something other than excitement or nerves. Pretended his mouth had gone dry only for a lack of water. Pretended the feeling in his stomach was the edge of hunger, though he had eaten more than his fill at the feast.

He turned to the next spell.

The sun was rising by the time he reached the middle of the book. The birds chirped merrily, and a warm breeze wafted in past the curtains, promising a perfect spring day. Loki ignored it, just as he ignored his sore eyes, the way his throat had clenched and tightened, the sickness prickling in the pit of his stomach.

He turned to the next spell.

It was full morning when Loki turned over the last page. The palace had begun to stir, bringing the next day with it.

Loki stared blankly at the last page, his fingers still pinching the paper. He couldn't move. He felt numb, strangely emptied. The air in his lungs seemed to crush his chest, alternately too heavy and too light with each breath.

It wasn't that all the spells were simple, for they weren't. It wasn't that all the spells were dull, for they were not. Most were difficult, some complex, many even interesting.

But nothing strayed too far from the ordinary. No spells that could be considered secret, or meant for only the most accomplished of sorcerers. No nigh-forgotten secrets of seiðr and the realms, ones that Father trusted to Loki, and _only_ Loki.

Nothing in Father's hand.

Nothing like _Mjolnir_.

Had he...had he missed _something?_ Skipped over a page in his haste...or was there a riddle he was meant to solve?

Loki turned through every page again, plucking at the edges in case any of the thin sheets had stuck together. He sent spells coursing through it, to reveal secret writing, hidden pages, _anything_. He flipped it upside down and shook it and waited for a note to come fluttering out.

Nothing happened. Loki put the book back on the desk. The plain-looking, average little book.

Heat pricked at the corners of his eyes. Trying to will the tears back, Loki squeezed his eyes shut. Warriors didn't cry. _Men_ didn't cry, and certainly not over something as stupid as not getting the gift they wanted. Only _children_ did that, not even the youth Loki had been a day earlier.

The tears didn't care that he had become a man today. They fell down his cheeks and onto the desk, some of them dropping onto Father's gift, splattering the pages. Angrily, Loki swiped the wetness from his cheeks. He rubbed at his eyes to get rid of them, and tried to take in deep breaths to release the tightness in his throat. Yet the breaths turned into half-gasped sobs, and the tears refused to stop flowing.

The book could have been something he had sought out on his own, or gotten for another of his name days without complaint. But not for his coming of age.

Not when Thor got Mjolnir.

Mjolnir was nowhere near _average_. A price couldn't be set on Mjolnir.

It was _extraordinary_. It was _unique_.

It was a perfect fit for Thor, for Asgard's golden prince. For a son of Odin.

Loki didn't _understand_. Had he done something wrong? Was Father angry at him over something – even though Loki hadn't even been in Asgard for the past _year_ – and this was Father's way of telling him? But Loki couldn't recall anything that would warrant a punishment like this, certainly not anything worse than what _Thor_ had ever done.

Or was this a sign of something else, something far worse?

Loki's hands fell to the desk to grip at the edge of the wood, knuckles white.

Father gave Thor Mjolnir because Thor was a warrior. One of the greatest weapons of all, for one of the greatest warriors of all. That was a choice Father could be proud of – that _Asgard_ could be proud of.

Loki was a sorcerer, a seiðman. One of the most powerful in the realm, or well on his way to it.

But that was not something to be proud of. Not for a man. Especially not for a prince.

Was the _book_ itself a message? A message that no matter how powerful Loki grew, no matter how vast his skill with seiðr, he would _never_ be worth more than this?

Was it to tell him that Father was not proud of his choice?

A great weight settled over Loki's chest, and he doubled over, trying to _breathe_. He took in great gasps of air, but none of it seemed to fill his lungs. He spluttered and choked, hands scrabbling at the desk as he tried to fill the _nothing_ inside of him.

_(Nothing, it all meant nothing, not his magic, or his words, it was all a_ _ **disappointment**_ – _)_

But Father wouldn't do that to him, would he? Father would have told Loki before his quest, so Loki could at least try to _prove_ himself a warrior, rather than let him fumble and fall.

_Wouldn't_ he?

Loki groped at the thought, holding it close. No, Father wouldn't have been so callous. The pride in Father's eyes and his smile when Loki completed the ceremony – _that_ had been real. Father wouldn't _mislead_ Loki like that, wouldn't let the kingdom know of his joy if he thought Loki had made a fool of himself. No, Father would be colder, more distant, if the book was meant as a message.

What had Father said before Loki left on his journey?

“ _I know you'll make me proud_ _.”_

Just like he'd told Thor.

There must be something more to this.

(There _had_ to be.)

Maybe later Father would come speak with him about his gift. Maybe tomorrow – or today, rather – Father would tell him what it meant, show him that there was _more_. Didn't that happen with Thor? Thor was left one or two nights of celebration all to himself, and then came the training. Father probably hadn't expected Loki to read it all in one night – he must have thought Loki would drink and party until he fell into bed senseless, like Thor, and by the time Father spoke to him, Loki wouldn't have had time to notice anything amiss.

Loki wiped the drying, embarrassing tears from his face – to think, he had been crying over _nothing_ – and didn't bother to change before crawling into bed for a few hours sleep.

(He ignored the heaviness settled on his stomach, and the worry that twisted inside it.)

 

* * *

 

As was customary, there were another three nights of feasting. It was not every day a prince of Asgard came of age, and Asgard did so love its feasts. Loki tried to make himself available for a summons from Father, but he barely had a moment to himself, let alone time to linger in his rooms, what with Thor and Sif and the Warriors Three dragging him out taverns, or being forced to attend more official celebrations. He only managed to see Father at the feasts each night, where they all sat at the high table. And even then, Thor and Loki were more often than not dragged away into the thick of noisy, drunk crowd.

The first night, Loki waited around until near the end of the feast, allowing himself to pulled into the crowd again and again, while still keeping an eye on the high table in case Father called him back. Mother and Father seemed to be whispering to each other, glancing up at him now and again. Loki believed that tonight was the night.

Except after Loki had excused himself from what felt like his hundredth dance partner, he glanced up at the table to find Father had departed, and Mother frowning at the doors. Perhaps, Loki thought as he let a passing warrior shove a cup of mead into his hands, Father believed he should not interrupt Loki's celebrations, and so let him be.

(He ignored the taste of ash on his tongue, that not even the sweetest of meads could clear away.)

The second night, Loki left as soon as possible, making excuses about needing an early night so he could make it through the third day. As he walked away, he waited for Father to call him back, to tell him to meet in his chambers later, but the call never came. Perhaps Father thought that, as Loki claimed, Loki truly needed the rest, and did not wish to exacerbate any illness, nor impart any lessons that Loki was too exhausted to heed.

(He ignored the twisting sickness in his belly, that made every morsel of food a fight to swallow down.)

On the third day, Loki timed it perfectly. He resisted most efforts to stray from the high table, only joining the crowd early in the evening. When Father stood to take his leave, nodding at something Mother was saying, Loki waited only a minute before standing himself. He made a hurried excuse to Thor and Mother and rushed down the steps towards the doors at the far end, where he could see Father slipping out. It took longer than he would have liked, what with well-wishers trying to get in one last word. Not that, Loki thought with spite, they would have bothered if they weren't drunk or sucking up in order to get into another of the prince's good graces.

Eventually, Loki squeezed through the doors in time to see Father rounding a corner. Not into a hall that would take him to his quarters, but one that would lead him lower into the palace.

It was also the direction to the Vault.

Loki raced towards the corner, then slowed as soon as he turned it, spotting Father only a bit of the way down.

“Father!” Loki called, and was relieved when Father stopped and turned. Loki caught up to him, not jogging too fast, nor dawdling his feet. “May I walk with you?” he asked as casually as he could.

Father smiled. “Of course, Loki. In fact...” Something flickered in Father's eye, but it was gone before Loki could figure out what it was. “I've been wishing to speak with you.”

Warmth bloomed in Loki's chest, and he buried a grin under a look of surprise. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Father said, resuming his pace, and Loki quickly matched his stride. “I should have spoken to you earlier, but I thought it best to put it off until...” Father's eye grew distant as he lead Loki to a staircase, and Loki's heart jolted when he headed downward – still the direction of the Vault. Loki was about to ask him, _Until what_ , when Father abruptly looked at him and said, “Are you enjoying your celebrations?”

_No, I've never enjoyed Asgard's 'celebrations'_. “Yes Father,” Loki replied cheerfully.

“Good. And your gift, have you had a look at it yet?”

Loki's stomach fluttered, and something eased up inside of him. So he had been right all along – Father hadn't wished to interrupt him, and now that Loki was free...

It took all Loki had to keep his voice steady as he answered, “Yes. Yes, I have, and–”

“Good, good,” Father said almost absentmindedly, nodding. He didn't even look Loki's way as he said it. His eye was settled on the distance once again.

Loki stared.

He didn't know how to react to this...this _dismissal_.

Was it _not_ the book Father wished to speak of? What else could it be? They were still heading deeper into the palace, the way to the Vault...and then again, it was also the way to the armoury, the kitchens, and the archives. Or perhaps, Father may just be going for a walk.

Loki stayed quiet, waiting, running the conversation through in his mind, but there was too little go on, too few clues.

Father broke the silence first.

“In your quest, where did you venture?” Father glanced up at Loki, his face giving nothing away about the sudden change in topic. “Did you see all the realms?”

_Is this a test?_ Loki wondered. Out loud, he said, “I visited all the realms but Helheim and Jotunheim, though I did scry into both, and–”

“Why not Jotunheim?” Father asked sharply, and Loki blinked in confusion.

“It is forbidden.”

“That has hardly stopped you before.”

The words weren't said harshly – in fact, they were rather matter of fact. They were accepting in a way Loki never thought Father would be about Loki's tendency to break rules that shouldn't be broken. But why _Jotunheim_ , of all places–

“There was no reason to go there, because Jotunheim has nothing worth pursuing,” Loki explained. He had only scryed into the realm because he was curious. Glimpse after glimpse of the wasteland had dampened that curiosity to nothing _._ “You should know better than anyone, Father, it's just ice and rocks, shrouded in darkness. The only thing of importance was the Casket, and Asgard already has that.”

“There are Jotnar.” The look on Father's face was unreadable, and Loki was even more confused than before.

If this was a test, had Loki already failed? Had he been meant to kill a giant? Thor hadn't killed one, or even _been_ to Jotunheim, though he had claimed to have dueled with an Eldjotun. “Yes, the Jotnar are there,” Loki answered, “but I did not – nothing about the rules of the quest demand that one slay a giant. And wouldn't killing them be breaking the treaty?”

Father stopped walking abruptly, and it took Loki a second to stop as well. Though Father's face was blank, his voice was quiet as he asked, “You can think of no other reason to visit Jotunheim?”

This conversation had not gone any way Loki had planned, and now Loki felt like he was treading unknown waters. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “We have their Casket and you brokered the peace treaty long ago, so they are no threat to the other realms. Unless we wished to hunt one of their beasts, why else would anyone wish to go there?”

His tone held curiosity, letting Father know that if there was a lesson he wished to teach, Loki was eager to hear it.

( _I will listen, I will learn, just tell me what you want me to_ _ **do**_ –)

“I see,” Father said, voice giving away nothing. He stared at Loki another few seconds, and Loki felt like he was being taken apart, analyzed bit by bit. Then Father's face lightened, the look disappearing, and he said, “I'm glad we had a chance to speak. I have seen you far too little the past few days, but when you take up your new duties as a man of Asgard, I hope we have more time to talk.” He gestured back the way they had come, up the stairs, away from the heart of Asgard. And the Vault. “Return to the feast, and tell Asgard of your adventures – it's your day, after all. You should be celebrating with your friends, not trying to keep me company.”

Father turned, not the way they had been going before, but towards a side hall, and began walking away.

Loki's confusion evaporated into panic, and the relief he had felt when they started this conversation seemed to freeze and coil about him.

“Wait – Father!” There was more than a hint of alarm in his voice, which may be why Father whirled so abruptly.

“Yes, Loki?” he asked, quickly closing the distance between them.

“I–”

_Why did you give me the book? Why did you give Thor Mjolnir? What did I do_ _**wrong?** _

“I – I learnt more of spear-work on my travels,” Loki blurted out, “and I do not find it as difficult as sword-work. I'm thinking of practising more with a spear, now that I am grown.”

“Oh?” Father looked surprised, then gave a pleased nod. “I am glad you found a weapon to suit you.”

As if Loki's knives were not weapons. As if his seiðr and silvertongue could not be used as weapons.

Is that what Father thought? Is that what Father wanted?

But Father just smiled and patted him on the arm. “Although leave some time for your spellbook as well. Your mother mentioned she'd like to ask you about it once you've had time to look it over.”

With a final smile, Father walked away, down the side hall. One that would take him up to the higher parts of the palace, to the royal quarters, leaving Loki behind.

Loki stood there, staring after Father. He couldn't move.

He didn't _understand_. Father wanted him to work with spears, and also with spells, yet he had said next to nothing about the book itself. _He_ hadn't wanted hear about the spells, only Mother. He didn't think anything was wrong with the gift.

And there was that absentminded look when Father had asked after it. As if Father didn't even truly care.

As if its importance, its _worth_ , hadn't even crossed his mind.

Loki stood there until a patrol of Einherjar marched by, all of whom were too well-trained to outright stare at Loki. That didn't mean they didn't see him.

Loki turned and stumbled away, not back towards the feast as Father had wanted, but in the direction of his rooms. The same direction Father had taken however many minutes before.

Sickness twisted in his stomach, ash lay in his mouth, and a weight crushed the air from his chest.

There was nothing else except the book. There never had been, and never would be. No secrets, no object of power, nothing that Father trusted Loki to learn or use or know.

Father had shown that Thor was worth something like Mjolnir, while Loki...wasn't.

When Loki reached his room, he curled up on top of his covers, too numb to even cry.

 

* * *

 

It took another few days – days spent in a haze of exhaustion, the sick weight in his stomach infecting his limbs, each morsel of food a battle to eat and each as bitter as the last – before Loki considered confronting Father.

He never managed the actual act itself.

He _tried_. Several times, in fact – his most successful being when he had gone as far as arriving at Father's workroom door and raising his hand to knock before fleeing. He never went through with it, because while his mind churned out carefully-worded question after question, none sounded right.

_Father, about the book–_

_Father, the book is a marvellous gift and I'm learning the spells as fast as I can, but–_

_Father, when you gave Thor Mjolnir, I thought–_

_Father, when Thor came of age, why did you decide–_

_Father, **why** –_

Because in each, he always sounded like a whiny child who didn't get the exact toy they wanted during the Yuletide season.

And wasn't he acting like that already?

Like a spoiled little brat who cried when things didn't go his way?

It wasn't as if anyone else saw anything wrong with Loki's gift.

Mother had hugged him and told him she was proud of her boy – for he and Thor would always be her little boys in her eyes, she said when he protested the appellation, no matter how thick their beards or how tall they towered over her. She told him she hoped he was taking a break from all his learning, for she knew how he could forget to eat or sleep for days if left uninterrupted with something new to learn,. Then she squeezed his arm and left.

Thor had said that now that Loki had reached adulthood, he could come with the rest of them on their quests, the ones that had been forbidden to Loki until now.

“You cannot waste all your time _reading_ ,” Thor insisted, leaning over Loki's desk and blocking his light. “Father's book will still be here when you return. Come, pack your saddlebags so we can leave in the morning! You can bring your new knives with you too!”

Loki wondered if Thor thought of Loki's adulthood as more of a gift for himself than Loki, so now Thor could drag him anywhere he wished.

He wondered if any of them had expected anything else to change.

Sif told him the book was much better than what her parents had tried to foist on her when she came of age (before Heimdall had intervened, appealing to the mother he shared with Sif). Fandral told him how “appropriate” a book was, for it seemed that not a day went by that Loki did not have his nose buried in one. Volstagg seconded him, saying that at this rate, Loki would be the most learned of them all, “and at half my age, my boy!” Meanwhile, Hogun gave him a quiet “congratulations”, and said no more.

It was the same as the gossip that spread through the palace, whenever Loki bent an ear to listen. If the gift was even mentioned at all, it was called only _appropriate_.

Only what he deserved.

Loki realized he had been right the first time: the rest of Asgard knew nothing of seiðr, and therefore thought nothing more of the book. Even if Loki explained it to them, they wouldn't understand. They only thought that if the All-Father decided on the gift, then it must be perfectly suitable. It couldn't be anything but _right_.

Had anyone else, in the whole realm, questioned what he received? Or had it just been Loki, fool that he was, hoping for more?

But what if they _had_ expected more? What if they had thought the second prince would be given equal to that of his brother? Had Loki been _shamed_ in front of the whole realm when he was given a bauble, and Thor a weapon worthy of a man? Were they whispering even now, as they always whispered and scorned Loki, about how _humiliating_ it must have been to receive an insignificant little tome, when Thor's gift still hung at his belt for all to see?

And now they all knew what Loki was really worth.

( _Nothing, compared to Thor_.)

Loki wasn't sure which was worse: that Father had done it on purpose, or that he _hadn't_.

If it was purposeful, then at least Loki knew he could do something to fix it, that there was a reason behind it all.

But if it wasn't...then Father didn't even notice enough to care.

Loki still held true to his promise to practise more with spears, and some days he spent so long training that his blisters split, weeping pus and blood

If Father observed Loki training at all, he said nothing.

And nothing changed.

 

* * *

 

It was during the trip to Alfheim that Loki let it slip. Sif had yelled at him to “Stop letting the blasted wights through!” and Loki had snarled back, “Well, not all of us were given a great, bloody war hammer to do the job for us!” He had even spared the time to shoot a glare in Thor's direction.

“Why, do I detect a hint of jealousy in those dulcet tones?” Fandral had teased, spearing an errant wolf-shaped beast on the point of his sword. “Your book of spells not good enough?”

“Not as good as Mjolnir,” Loki muttered, setting a bear-shaped wight on fire with a gesture and a thought.

He didn't expect them to hear. No more than he expected it continue from there. Except Fandral had decided to include that exchange in his stories of the adventure, a jest to interrupt the rest of the tense, adrenaline-filled tale. And most hadn't taken it as a joke.

_Jealous_ , they said, and Loki heard because he couldn't stop himself from listening. _Jealous._ _E_ _nviousness. Greedy. Yes, that fits the second prince of Asgard_ _._ _Jealous of his brother's place, his brother's power, even his brother's weapon. What would the trickster covet next, the throne?_

Jealous, yes. Loki was _jealous_. Of course he was jealous. The moment he voiced his doubt out loud, they _all_ named him _jealous_.

Was that so wrong?

They thought he got what he deserved, that his jealously was improper, that it was out of place. They thought that what he had – Thor's shadow, Asgard's scorn, Father's disregard – _was_ his place.

Was it so wrong to want more?

Did wanting more _make_ him wrong?

But he was wrong about so many other things, wasn't he – his tricks, his seiðr, his preference for knives, even his _desires_ , because even though he had yet to lay with anyone, from the heat that burned low in his gut for those not only of the other sex, he _knew_.

What was one more thing to make him _wrong_?

“Know your place,” Thor told him. And though only Thor was brash enough to say it, everyone else, except Mother, made sure he _knew_ it: Sif, and Volstagg, and Fandral, and Hogun, and the councillors and the nobles and the warriors.

And Father.

 

* * *

 

If he had known the truth, maybe he wouldn't have tried so hard.

 

* * *

 

It all made sense now, of course, Loki thought as he fell.

One could not trust a Jotun with power. One could not trust a Jotun at all. Why hand over an object of power, the secrets of Asgard, spells powerful enough to rival the Odinforce, to an enemy? To _Laufey's son_?

It hadn't even been Father ( _not-Father_ ) who had trusted him with the throne, with Gungnir. That had been Mother, who believed in him. Who _trusted_ him.

And he had failed them all.

Perhaps the falling redeemed him.

If death finally took him in this place, maybe he won't have failed after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading!
> 
> I believe it was [Mikkeneko's Slow Poison](http://archiveofourown.org/works/507729/chapters/893754) that gave me the idea of Loki getting a book when he came of age. I think I was originally going to try to choose something other than a book, but I got too lazy. Also, here's another note that I discovered from when I first wrote this fic: Odin _is_ proud of Loki, or as proud as he can be. He's just is terrible at showing it.
> 
> Now, let's just hope that _Ragnarok_ doesn't as drastically change my view of Odin's character as _The Dark World_ did.


End file.
